Lullaby
by I am the Unicorn
Summary: He was the King and Queen’s musician. Inherently, he could belong to no one - especially not to Princess Zelda’s chosen suitor. Shink. Semi-AU. Slash.


He was the King and Queen's musician. Inherently, he could belong to no one - especially not to Princess Zelda's chosen suitor. Shink. Semi-AU.

**Lullaby**

**Chapter I

* * *

  
**

"_Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness."

* * *

  
_

It was Lady Impa, guardian of the acclaimed Princess Zelda, who had found a young Sheik sprawled – bleeding, malnourished and unconscious – on the stairs leading up to Kakiriko Village. In the basement of a homely-looking inn located just on the outskirts of the small community, Impa took great care in nursing the boy back to health, providing food for his empty stomach and tending to the many wounds peppering his small frame. The woman, who was younger and far less weary in appearance back then, never asked what happened to the boy when he'd fully recovered from his ailments (she was sure that her suspicions of abuse were undoubtedly correct). She told him of her servitude to the Royal Family, of Princess Zelda, of the many great and wonderful things that the Royal Family did for the land of Hyrule and more importantly how she would forever remain their loyal servant.

"_But_ _why is it that you wear a mask?" Sheik inquired inquisitively, looking at the concealed woman calculatingly. _

"_It is… custom of the Sheikah that our faces remain hidden," She answered slowly. There was more to it than that, she knew; masking her face was the one way to assure that she would be safe in public, away from the prying eyes of villagers who would otherwise stare openly at her and treat her indifferently. Being a Sheikah was by no means a gift – the shadow folk were looked upon as betrayers of the kingdom and treated as such. The Sheikah were people of the shadows; like ghosts, they walked amongst the living, lusting for the invaluable, impalpable light of life, but were never quite able to find the flame. Their culture and traditions had been damned from the very beginning._

"_Then you are a Sheikah as well?" _

"_Indeed, I am," Impa replied, looking down sadly upon the young boy, whose awed, crimson eyes sparkled like twin rubies back at her. One of the last remaining Sheikah in all of the land, and he could not even recognize one of his own, let alone distinguish the cultural traits of his tribe. It truly saddened her._

Upon the day of her leaving, Impa lingered in the threshold of the small inn, notifying Sheik that, if he wished, he could accompany her to the palace. She didn't elaborate more on the subject, only gazing coolly at the silent boy. He knew that there was nowhere else he could go, no place in Hyrule that would take in a thrice-damned abomination of Sheikah decent. The boy trailed behind the towering, intimidating Impa down the steps of Kakiriko Village, passing over the flight of steps where he'd fallen, and descended upon the open grassland of Hyrule Field.

The young boy was bewildered when he crossed the drawbridge leading to Hyrule Castle, eyes blinking up at the white-washed spires that towered above them. He could make out the silhouettes of guards shifting around, keeping vigil over the distant hills. Pulling away his fascinated gaze, Sheik saw the silver-haired woman at the other end of the bridge patiently waiting for him to stop his gawking. Shaking his head, the young boy trudged up to her. She warned him to stay very close; people of the city were not to be trusted.

Impa was torn – there was no place for the young Sheikah boy to stay. The servant's quarters were dangerous for one as young as him, and Impa knew that his bloodline would only make it worse. People of the castle wouldn't hesitate to injure the boy. The stables were not suitable either; the men who worked there were burlesque, crude, and intoxicated a good portion of the time.

Eventually, an idea struck her.

"This is the Temple of Time," the Sheikah woman spoke in the calm, muted voice. "You may follow me in, but you will not speak unless spoken to."

Sheik nodded. The woman looked upon him blankly before turning and pushing the heavy door to the temple open. Cold air assaulted them as they stepped in; the young boy stared at the vastness of the interior, eyes raking over the stained glass windows and cherry wood pews. The pair continued to walk until they reached the opposite end of the cathedral where a door was placed; they walked through it, ascended a flight of winding, precarious-looking stairs, until they emerged into a large room. There was a small bed placed off to the corner, a wooden chair, bookshelves and a writing desk which was overwhelmed with piles upon piles of books and littered with quills.

"Lady Impa?" Behind the mountain of knick-knacks and books popped out a head. "…Is that you?"

"Yes," she answered as the priest stood from his seat and walked over, cane thumping across the wood with each gated step he took. Sheik, although scared, did not waver. Just as Impa asked, he remained silent. "I've come to ask a favor of you, Father Vahn."

"Favor?" The elderly man had light blue, almost silvery eyes - a common trait coinciding with blindness. Why and how the priest was looking at books, Sheik hadn't the slightest clue.

"While on my mission, I found a young boy. He is of the Sheikah tribe. He stands beside me as we speak."

"…Sheikah!" He repeated, flabbergasted. "Well, I'll be…"

"He will need temporary shelter as he begins his training. The castle is too dangerous. I've come to ask if you will allow him to stay here."

Shocked, Sheik glanced over at Impa. She'd never mentioned anything about training - training for _what_?

"What is his name?" Queried the old priest.

Impa looked to her side, nodding to the young boy in acquiescence.

"My name is Sheik," he said without missing a beat.

"Glad to meet you, Sheik." The man held his trembling, aged hands out. "Would you please give me your hands?"

At this, the crimson eyed boy appeared uneasy, glancing up at Impa questioningly.

Again, she nodded.

Stepping forward, Sheik pensively placed his small hands on the other's. The priest's fingertips gently clasped the boy's hands, quivering digits perusing the swells and depressions lining the flesh of his palm.

"You possess great talent, boy," he whispered after a moment, voice ragged with age. Together, their hands shook; the priest's eyes became glassy as the silence in the room grew to suffocating new heights. Impa's eyebrows knitted together as she silently digested the old priest's words.

Hands expeditiously retracting, Father Vahn turned around, cane swinging back and forth as he navigated the space. Both of the Sheikah watched with fascination as the man moved artlessly around the room, steps unfaltering.

"…I have decided that I will take you in – allow you to live inside this house of mine as Lady Impa trains you. In exchange, I would like to teach you…" Muttering to himself, Father Vahn disappeared behind his desk, only to emerge once more, holding an object in his hands.

"… to play this."

In his hands was a small, blue violin.

* * *

He lived in the Temple of Time with the priest for three years, until he was thirteen. Between his rigorous training with Impa and endless hours of violin practice with Father Vahn, there was rarely time for Sheik to sit idle. Learning to play the violin sparked something deep in the blond, igniting an unflagging passion for music that only grew as time passed. He was enamored with the subject and had absorbed all of Father Vahn's teachings like a porous sponge. As he trained tirelessly with Impa, he was taught to defend himself and also learned of the Sheikah way. Delving through the Temple's archives, Impa provided a vast amount of books on the history of the Sheikah and their customs, and how they came into existence.

During those short, beautiful years, Sheik had experienced what it was like to have a family –no matter how different he, Impa, and Father Vahn were. Those three wonderful years, wherein only Impa and the old priest knew of his existence, were the happiest years of his life.

_Wielding the bow expertly across the taut strings of the violin, Sheik allowed the tempo of the song to quicken, closing his eyes as he listened to the crystalline sound erupt from the small, wooden instrument. The pitch spiked as he manipulated the strings, the sound reaching a heart-wrenching crescendo. He gently rested his head against the small cushion on the instrument, twisting his body so that the notes were hit with perfect precision as he bit his lower lip in concentration. Slowly, the music slipped back into a low-pitched diminuendo; the vibrato of each note came to a painstaking slow before completely ceasing altogether. Sheik's shoulders relaxed minutely as he drew the bow back._

"_You've come very far, Sheik." _

_Smiling gently, the boy looked up at the elderly man and placed his violin against the chair._

"_Come. I wish to show you something." _

_Standing up, Sheik patiently followed behind Father Vahn. They exited the Temple of Time through the back entrance, walking across the large expanse of lush, emerald green grass before suddenly stopping. _

_Sheik frowned, and Father Vahn pointed to the ground, where a white dove lay with its head tucked against the grass. Had Father Vahn not stopped walking, the boy might've accidentally stepped on it. _

"_Its wings are broken," Sheik appraised, kneeling beside the dove and stroking its neck; its watery, onyx eyes blinked up at him with curiosity. _

"_Yes," the priest answered sadly. "Apparently, some young children thought it would be humorous to throw rocks at it. But as you know, a bird that cannot fly will die." _

_Sheik said nothing._

"_Freedom is one of many gifts that the goddesses blessed creatures with. Wings grant birds the ability to fly freely, to find safety in the trees, to search for food – but when that freedom is taken away, when forced into submission and unable to fly, the bird's existence is rendered meaningless._

"_I've taught you many things, Sheik. The songs you've learned are songs I learned when I was young, when still I had the strength to play. They have been in my family for generations, passed down by my forefathers," reaching into his black robe, the priest pulled out an object wrapped in white cloth. Steadily, he pried away the fabric, revealing the shimmering object hidden beneath. _

_It was an instrument unlike anything he'd ever seen – a blue crescent moon whose tips were carved into sharp, talon-like shapes. The pointed edges were conjoined by a bar, to which the strings were securely fastened. _

"_Take it. It's yours." _

_The instrument was suddenly thrust in the thirteen-year-old's hands. _

"_It's called a Lyre. Do you remember me teaching you about them?" _

_At Sheik's silence, the older man chuckled. _

"_They are built like harps, but they are much smaller and sound vastly different. When the strings are plucked, they create a very unique sound. Go ahead, try it." _

_Experimentally, the boy brought his fingers to the delicate strings and let them glide across, strumming each individual note. At the sound, Sheik smiled gratefully. _

"_Thank you very much, Father Vahn." _

"_Do you think that you can play it now?" _

_Sheik glanced up, looking unsure. He'd never played a lyre before… and there were so many different strings._

"_I… I don't think I can…" _

"_**I **__think that you can, Sheik. Just focus." _

_Crimson eyes fell upon the small dove still resting in the grass, its small body heaving as it breathed. It would die – but it didn't deserve to. Death was a natural occurrence in nature, he knew. But it just didn't seem right. _

_Gnawing on his lip, the boy let his fingers pluck the taught strings, trying to memorize each tone. In his mind, he already knew which song he wanted to play. He just needed the right notes._

_When he finally was able to mentally jot down each note that was necessary to complete the song, Sheik began to play. It was simple and maybe not too beautiful-sounding, but that was to be expected. The first time through was clumsy – his knuckles would accidentally scrape against a foreign string and he would lose focus of the beat. But it was the second try that Sheik found himself connecting not only with the motions of his fingertips, but connecting with each distinct sound that filled the air. Something powerful flowed through his fingertips, a humming energy that sent his nerve endings alight. In response, his soul itself seemed to overflow with a kind of happiness that he couldn't quite describe._

_Pulling the last string, Sheik opened his eyes, only to find his mouth gaping. _

_The dove emanated an unearthly, almost ethereal glow; the pale aura of light exuding from the bird left Sheik reeling back in shock. He blinked his crimson eyes and, a moment later, amidst a flurry of feathers, cooing and the sound of flapping wings, the dove flew into the air. _

"_The Song of Healing," Father Vahn smiled knowingly, patting the Sheikah on the back. "Indeed, you are a very, very gifted child."

* * *

  
_

One summer day, when the sun was highest in the sky and there was not a cloud in sight, those three wonderful years came to a sudden and bitter close. Castle guards stormed into the Temple of Time, burst into Father Vahn's home and seized the young Sheikah boy. He valiantly attempted to ward them off, physically exercising his knowledge of combat, but it was futile. It took only one punch to face with a powerful, metal fist to render the thirteen-year-old unconscious – the soldiers then proceeded to excessively injure the fallen child by kicking him with their steel-toed armor. Father Vahn screamed in protest as the men raided his home, toppling over his desk and bookshelves, tearing apart his books and slashing his mattress to ribbons. But because of his blindness and old age, there was nothing he could do, even as they hoisted Sheik's unmoving body away.

The guards brought the unconscious boy into the castle, before the King and Queen, who looked upon the wounded boy dispassionately. They were enraged upon hearing of Impa's betrayal and, without hesitation, accused her of treason.

* * *

"_Is this true, Impa? That you hid this boy in the Temple of Time for three years? Training him?" _

_Eyes completely devoid of emotion, Impa only gave a curt nod. Her gloved hands clenched into fists at the sight of her bloodied ward, who lay completely inert on the floor._

"_Training him! For what purpose?" The King interrogated icily. "Of what use is this boy to you?" _

"…_He is my kin," she replied truthfully, keeping her voice and face carefully blank. Inside, a raging inferno of sheer fury roiled, threatening to shatter her composure._

"_And I am your Queen. And he is your King," Motioning to herself and her husband, blue eyes glared down at Impa from the dais. "We have entrusted the safety of our daughter, the heir to this very throne, to __**you**__. Yet, you've lied to the both of us." _

_"Have you forgotten our agreement, Impa?" The King groused, lips tightened.  
_

"_He's only a child – he is of no threat, your majesty." _

_The King's lips curled into a sneer, "I can assure that he isn't. That he will __**never**__ be." _

_At these words, Impa's heart began to race. She could feel the quickening beat in her chest, slamming against her breast plate. Her blood ran cold. _

"_I shall pass forth his sentence now, in hopes that you, Impa, will be reminded who is Ruler of this land," jewelry-encrusted fingertips drummed agitatedly upon the armrest as the King spoke, "and who is servant."_

_Impa fixed her terrified gaze to the boy lying on the ground, resplendent, quicksilver locks matted with blood and complexion a pasty white. From where she stood, it was difficult to make out if the boy was even breathing. It took every fiber of her being to resist taking the boy into her arms. Unknowingly, Impa had grown attached to the talented boy and was governed by maternal instinct to protect him. Similarly, she was bound by duty, by oath, to protect the Royal Family and their interests. There would be no choosing between the two – for she of all people knew that she had no choice._

_Just as the binding words were about to slip past the King's lips, the doors to the throne room burst open with a brilliant collage of sound. A trail of light bled across the marble floor and cascaded onto the dais. Holding a hand up, the queen closed one eye to ward of the intensity of the sunlight she was now bathed in._

_"Wait!" A raspy voice implored from the other side of the room. The guards at the King's side shifted their weapons, iron grips tightening._

_Impa spun at the familiar voice, eyes wide._

"_Father Vahn! How __dare you__ show your face here?" The King stood from his thrown, trembling with rage. _

_The old priest collapsed upon the floor in exhaustion, cane clattering at his side._

"_You cannot kill the boy, your Majesty! He has… Goddess-given talents!" _

"_Ha! Goddess-given... talents? The Sheikah?" The King looked at the injured boy and barked out a mocking laugh, but was silenced as the Queen's hand slowly rose. Her sharp features were attentive, acutely interested in what the priest had to say. Agitation crept into the King's features as he slowly sat himself back down._

"_Please enlighten us, Father Vahn, of this so-called 'talent.'" The Queen ordered._

_One of the guards stepped forward and helped the priest to his feet, guiding him forward._

_Hope swelled in Impa as the aged man approached the throne. His blind, foggy eyes searched for the Queen but failed._

"_He possesses great magical skill. It merely needs to be nourished, my Queen. Honed." _

"_Magic?" The King echoed with a skeptical voice.  
_

_Impa walked up to the priest, hand resting on his shoulder comfortingly. "I have seen it firsthand, your Highness. His music… it has the ability to heal." _

_A tense silence fell upon the throne room like a thick fog. _

"…_How is that even possible?" The queen drew an unsteady breath.

* * *

  
_

It was then, body sheen with a layer of cold sweat and eyes peeled wide with stark, animalistic fear, Sheik jolted upwards from his bed, navy blue sheets pooling at his hips. Bringing bandaged fingertips to his face and letting them slide down his cheek, the young man struggled valiantly to catch his breath. His heart fluttered rapidly, like a bird's wings. Why was he so scared?

Blinking away what little sleep remained in his system, the blond stared ahead, allowing his body to calm as he gazed sightlessly out the open window of his bedroom. The sun glared past the panels of wood and stone, filling the room with a warm, heady glow. From the looks of it, it was late morning. What did he do last night? He was an extremely early riser, so how was it that he had slept so long? He couldn't even remember falling asleep –

His hand fell at its side, falling upon a hard object lying on the surface of his bed. Glancing down, the crimson-eyed male scrutinized the object carefully. It was a large, leather-bound book whose cover was carved in old Hylian script; the pages were tattered and yellowed with age, signifying that its contents had been well-explored many times since being written. Acutely, Sheik recalled thumbing through the book while lying in bed the previous night and vaguely remembered placing the book beside him as he succumbed to exhaustion.

Pushing the sheets off of his body, Sheik managed to haul his legs over the side of his bed and let his feet rest on the reed mat that was rolled onto the floor (it helped to absorb the coldness of the stone). He allowed his hands to rest limply in his lap as he looked to the corner of his room, eyes befalling his beloved lyre resting on the wooden chair, which showed no signs of being used. He looked to its counterpart, a violin that was also ultramarine in color, which leaned against the leg of the chair, having not moved since the previous evening. The delicate-looking but sturdy bow accompanying the stringed instrument was just where he'd left it as well – beside the violin, also leaning against the decrepit chair.

His past enjoyed haunting him while awake and in sleep, tricking him into re-experienceing the happiness that seemed so abundent when living with Vahn above the Temple of Time. But he always woke up cold and alone.

His train of thought derailed as he moved from his bed, arms stretching above his head and simultaneously yawning. There was no use in rushing his morning routine today; his last audience before the King and Queen took place three mornings before, and he had no other previous engagements to attend to. Impa called their daily training off, due to a mission that needed her immediate attention. It was possible that this day could be used for indulging in less constructive activities – perhaps he could slip from the castle and venture through town, maybe even visit an old friend. Of course, he would have to take the backstreets and circumvent the crowds in town in order to remain unseen.

Opening the rusty-hinged trunk at the foot of his bed, Sheik's eyes beset his daily garments provided to him by Impa, who explained when he was much younger that it was customary for the Sheikah to wear form-fitting clothing. It was a full-body suit, tailored specifically to fit his body type (which would forever be small and lithe, a fact he'd begrudgingly accepted over time). Fitted with light and airy exoskeletal armor that slid over his shanks, biceps, forearms, chest and rear, the open joints it made movement easy and, because the fabric was so light, surprisingly comfortable to wear, even in the ghastly heat of summer. Over this ensemble, of course, was the burlap cloth emblazoned with the symbol of his tribe: a red, all-seeing eye articulated with a large teardrop. If he did go into town, it would be a rudimentary mistake to wear this particular item.

He slipped out of his tunic and leggings, unraveled the coarse fabric from his tanned fingertips as well the cloth around his face and habitually began to worm his way into his Sheikah garbs, snapping several small widgets and armor plates into place. He grabbed his cowl, covered his face from sight, pulled his albeit too-long hair back into a neat coil and then re-wrapped his wrists and fingertips.

'_There_,' he thought, feeling much more clean-cut as he rolled his shoulders experimentally. _'What now?'_

In response, the musician's stomach began to growl. Sheik looked down at his protesting belly, frowning.

He was hungry.

And… well, breakfast _did_ sound rather nice at the moment…

Sheik made his way across the room, intending to take a trip down to the castle kitchens. It was just as he opened the door to the outside hallway that he found himself being unexpectedly thrown off balance as a young girl bowled clumsily into his legs. The blond clutched onto the door frame, visible eye narrowing in annoyance at the freckle-faced child.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mister Sheik!" She apologized.

"…Mikel," Sheik ground out, sounding less-than-pleased as the girl began to straiten her self, smoothing her apron and shaking off the sudden collision.

"I came to bring you some food," the young girl explained, pointing at the small stool in the hallway where she temporarily placed the platinum tray. "Lady Impa told me to as she left."

"Oh," well, in that case… "Thank you."

It looked as though his words had just made the child's day.

"You're welcome!" She chirped excitedly, bustling over to the plate and bringing it back over to him. He gently took it from her, looking over the contents. There were several slices of fresh-baked bread, an apple, grapes, milk… and porridge.

He hated porridge but made no comment. Mikel smiled jubilantly up at him before skipping in the opposite direction, down the winding stairs of the tower and back to wherever it was she had come from.

* * *

'_He walks among us, but he is not one of us.' _

The statement repeated over and over in his mind as he slipped down the narrow backstreets of the castle town, head bowed. When he was young, meandering through a small, market town, he'd overheard an elderly man who spoke of Sheik as though he were invisible. They were the cruelest, most cutting words he'd heard as a child – they were words that he would never forget. But they were truthful. It seemed that whenever the Sheikah felt out of place in a certain situations, it was these haunting words that rung, tolling like funeral bells, in his mind.

As much as he enjoyed being able to sneak away from the castle, he could not escape the distinct sense of not belonging; a sense that, like his own shadow, seemed to follow him wherever he went.

The streets of the city were always kept immaculate, even the alleyways, which made it easier to maneuver about the city. From the streets, Sheik could hear merchants boasting their newly-acquired fine jewelry and produce, the humming of life all about him: people talking, crowds walking, children laughing, women gossiping…

It would take him longer to get to his desired location – the backstreets were clean and devoid of obtrusive objects that would otherwise impede his footing, but the detour was still a long one. He'd have to get to the other side of town by taking a countless litany of turns that only increased the distance. He assumed that his rout was somewhere near an extra mile or two of walking when compared to main street, which led strait through the city. However, he didn't mind the walk.

When he reached his destination, Sheik caught glimpse of the iron lattice he'd been looking for. Quickly glancing over his shoulder, the young man walked to the gate and gently pushed it open, wincing at the squeal that belted from its rustic, un-oiled hinges.

Ok, he'd been trying to _avoid_ that.

The myriad of cats he had tried not to alert came a-scurrying, meowing and purring as they trudged up to the now-frustrated musician. Cursing, Sheik found himself wishing that the building wasn't so far off of the beaten track. He also wished that the owner of said building would take care of the obvious cat…_infestation_.

'_Damn it,'_ the musician thought sourly, half-heartedly kicking at the fuzzy felines as he walked down the slanted cobblestone pathway. "Get _away_," he hissed angrily at one, an orange and white tabby cat who lovingly circled between his legs as he attempted to get into the building. Sheik froze as the door ahead of him suddenly groaned opened, releasing the sound of glasses tinkling together and a woman yelling "Goodbye, Handsome!" Much to his surprise, the figure that stepped out from the building was ensconced in a cloak whose fabric billowed like a dark shroud. Sheik frowned. When the door clicked shut, silence remained – along with meows and purring sounds that nearly drove Sheik up the wall.

Paying the ominous stranger no heed, Sheik stepped forward. Suddenly, the orange tabby cat let loose an ear-splitting combination of a meow and hiss as Sheik's foot caught on its body, sending the musician propelling forward. All of the cats flew into a tizzy, scattering about and running back into the alley. A startled sound escaped Sheik, whose eyes clenched shut as he prepared to fall face-first onto cold, unforgiving cobblestone.

….But, surprisingly, it never came.

"Are you ok?" Questioned a concerned voice – judging by the low, syrupy tone, it was a man.

The Sheikah was speechless, completely frozen at the warmth of the arms that were wrapped securely around his waist. Human contact was not something the Sheikah was accustomed to; growing up without parents left him bereft of such luxurious things. But even if his parents had managed to survive whatever ordeals they went through, it wouldn't matter – it wasn't customary of their tribe to touch. All the same, the intimacy of the other's hold struck a cord somewhere in Sheik, even if it wasn't intended. Only Impa bothered to help him gather his bearings after falling. But never before had anyone kept him from falling altogether; Impa firmly believed that falling down helped one become stronger, to learn to stand back on their feet.

But… was the man absolutely _insane_? You didn't just catch someone you didn't know when they were falling – not in a city like this.

'_Must be a foreigner…_' He thought to himself acerbically as the cloaked stranger hoisted the reluctant musician back to his feet, hands lingering on his shoulders. Sheik slapped the hands away reflexively, flushing with angry embarrassment beneath his cowl. His eyes narrowed, and he muttered a very taut, emotionless, teeth-gritted-together "Don't _touch_ me, I'm fine," and then followed it up by an equally begrudging, almost inaudible "Thank you."

Then, swallowing his wounded ego, Sheik marched past the cloaked stranger, who stood stock-still at the crimson-eyed man's terseness. Plaintively ignoring the way the cloaked man turned to watch him, the blond walked up to the wooden entrance of the obscured building, gave one last glare behind him, opened the door and disappeared behind it, brutally slamming it shut.

'_What the hell __**was**__ that?'_ Sheik pressed his forehead against the door, taking a breath.

"Hey – don't slam the door so hard!" Snapped a hefty voice, sounding peeved.

He remained silent for a moment, gathering his wits about him.

"You should consider getting rid of those _vermin_," Sheik prompted, still trying to recover from the previous event. He hated cats. Actually, he disliked all animals in general. "One of your damnable _pets_ almost _killed_ me."

The sound of glass being set against the bar counter was all too loud; Sheik turned to look at the robust woman, who was now sporting a grin. Placing her hands on her hips, Telma let out a loud, pleasantly surprised laugh.

"I'll be damned! If it isn't Sheik-"

"Of the Sheikah." They both finished, voices in perfect synchronization. Sheik did a wonderful job of feigning the exuberance of the statement. Again, Telma laughed.

"And those aren't my cats," she clarified pointedly. "They're strays. They just come 'cause I give 'em leftovers."

"You shouldn't feed them, they'll only multiply."

"Oh, hush yourself," Telma teased. "So, what brings ya here, boy? I haven't seen you in… hell! A couple months, at least!"

"Day off," Sheik replied easily, sidling up to the bar. One of the woman's sharp eyebrows rose dubiously.

"You get days off there?"

"… It's all in the eye of the beholder." Knowing that the Sheikah didn't drink alcohol, Telma grabbed a glass from one of the cabinets and filled it with water, sliding it across the counter where Sheik's waiting hand caught it. "Impa's away on business, so I have no training, and I have no audiences to play before at the castle."

"Ah. And how _are_ things in the castle?" She inquired, putting her weight against the counter.

The masked man analyzed the woman carefully, taking in her features. Yes, she was robust – but that did little to interfere with her natural beauty. Her hair was worked into dreadlocks, highlighted red and brown and pulled into a neat pony tail. Her skin was tan, like that of her people, and her eyes were a warm shade of brown with flecks of fiery gold. But all the same, she appeared weary; overworked, perhaps. Sheik had presumed that it had something to do with the accumulating number of soldiers entering and exiting the city. He knew of how much she despised them– they were unruly, rude, and because of her uncanny resemblance to the Gerudo, they didn't hesitate to make snide remarks.

But... that wasn't all, was it?

"How are things with you and Renado?"

At this, Telma sputtered. She pointed an accusing, purple-nailed finger at Sheik.

"Don't answer a question with another question!"

"Hn." Sheik's visible eye glittered with amusement.

Telma snorted indignantly, arms folding over her well-endowed bosom. "If you _must_ know… _Renado _and I," she tossed out the shaman's name as if it left a bad taste in her mouth, "are on a break."

So, his assumptions were correct.

"What happened?"

"…Didn't work out on my end," she explained. "He's too headstrong and I'm too… myself. Wanna keep my options open, in case someone else comes a callin'."

At this, Sheik chuckled. How predictable.

Telma was an old friend of Impa, and one of the first people he'd become acquainted with soon after being thrust into the castle. His mentor brought him to meet her one rainy day, that way Telma could watch over him while Impa left to complete a mission outside of the city limits. It was after Impa left that Telma spoke of her mother, who was trained as a Gerudo warrior, explaining how she left the desert in hopes of making a living in the city. Her mother (who was apparently as fiery as Telma) integrated well into her new surroundings, married a Hylian soldier and became pregnant. But before she could notify her husband of the coming child, he was called away to fight, and never returned - leaving her mother to raise Telma alone.

"Say, you didn't go runnin' into a cloaked guy on your way here by any chance?" Telma inquired, drying some freshly-washed shot glasses with her apron.

Sheik stilled.

"…No."

Head cocked to the side, Telma looked at Sheik as if gauging his truthfulness. He remained expressionless.

"Huh! Well, the man said he was gonna head up to the castle. Urgent business with Princess Zelda, he told me…"

Now _that_ caught his attention.

"Awful handsome too, if I say so myself."

"And what does _that_ have to do with anything?" Sheik pushed down his cowl slightly, taking a sip from his glass. The water had a slightly rusty aftertaste that left him cringing. Water from inside the city was ghastly, with a high content of metal coursing through it. The tangy aftertaste reminded him of blood.

Telma laughed.

"Doesn't have to _do_ with anything, just thought I'd voice my opinion. Anyway," She paused, "how's the music biz' treatin' ya, Kid?"

"It's…" Something had lodged itself into his throat, preventing him from speaking; he tried to swallow whatever it was, but all it did was make him look pained.

"One of these days you need to bring your stuff down here and play! I'm sure you'd get quite the crowd," the half-Gerudo wagged her eyebrows. "Gotta be boring, playing in front of all those royal folks at the castle all the time."

Sheik nodded silently. It was too true; one grew tired of the regality of an audience whose tight-lips and upturned noses did nothing but size him up as he played. They never bothered to listen to the music. Never.

Telma noticed Sheik's suddenly downcast features and bit her lip. _Landmine_.

"Things… things will look up for you, Sheik. I know that they will," she whispered consolingly, resting her hand on his. He allowed the touch, but said nothing in return.

* * *

**-/notes/-

* * *

  
**

'_He walks among us, but he is not one of us.'_

If any of you have ever watched the series 'Lost,' then you will have hopefully heard this particular quote. (Personally, I don't really watch the show, my parent's are addicted to it and occasionally I go into the living room to watch it with them.) The statement is actually tattooed onto Jack's shoulder in Asian script, and he gets beat up for having it. Just thought I'd articulate where this came from.

The quote at the beginning of the chapter was written by an American poet named Maya Angelou, in case you were wondering.

That, and Telma and Renado were actually in Twilight Princess – I really liked both of their characters, and decided I'd incorporate them into this. Ha.

Samuel Barber's: Adagio for Strings is a fine representation of the tone that I will set in this fanfiction. It's a heartbreakingly beautiful piece, I'd recommend that you listen to it.

Next chapter is already in the works, and will hopefully answer some of the questions that you all probably have. In the mean time, _please_ review!


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